


where the love light gleams

by wearealltalesintheend



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bisexual Quentin Coldwater, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Falling In Love, Humor, M/M, Snowed In, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21623206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearealltalesintheend/pseuds/wearealltalesintheend
Summary: Quentin just wanted to spend the holidays quietly with his family in a cabin up in the mountains, but like everything else in his life, it could hardly go according to plan-- but sometimes best laid plans going to waste can lead to Christmas miracles.or, Eliot crashes into a stranger's couch and somehow finds himself a family.alternatively, the Christmas Getaway AU
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Margo Hanson/Josh Hoberman, Quentin Coldwater & Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 8
Kudos: 144
Collections: Magicians Hallmark Holiday Extravaganza





	where the love light gleams

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [building a (gingerbread) home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21633274) by [kazzashepard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazzashepard/pseuds/kazzashepard). 



> okay holy shit this fic has been in the makings for quite some time! Being part of this project has been incredibly exciting and I can believe how lucky I got to be paired with such an awesome artist!
> 
> Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy this and don't forget to go check out the amazing art for this fic!

**Risalamande**

_Risalamande is a traditional Danish dessert typically served at Christmas. It is made out of rice pudding mixed with whipped cream, vanilla, and chopped almonds; and is usually served cold with a cherry sauce._ _By tradition, the person finding a hidden almond in the dessert is expected to get married before the next Christmas–_

*

Christmas can be a lot of things, can _mean_ a lot of things, and Eliot has traveled all over the world to witness them. He’s written about all the little traditions he’s seen, those open secrets passed down from generations, and found himself part of a larger world, a fly on the wall.

All these experiences and yet– he finds himself unsure how to proceed now. 

Maybe his choice of Christmas dish was not so smart, he can't remember why he thought this was a good idea. 

The almond feels like a sword over his head, sharp and ready to strike, and while he knows it doesn't have to mean anything, Eliot’s seen Mike’s smile at his explanation. It doesn't have to mean anything, but it _would._

Still, Eliot laughs at Josh’s dumb jokes and nods thoughtfully as Kady explains how she’ll be flying out to California in a couple of days to meet with Penny. It’s a good night, god knows he missed them, and he has fun in a way he had forgotten how to. Traveling suits him like a well-worn sweater, comfortable and familiar, but fraying at the edges, leaving him cold spots that are beginning to get impossible to ignore. There’s a homesickness brewing on his bones and Eliot is scared to look too close, check to see if _home_ still means his apartment here in New York.

Margo’s laugh startles him out of his thoughts and Eliot breathes in a shuddery breath, relief washing over him in a dizzy wave. “Well, fuck me,” she says, holding her spoon midway to her mouth, the almond perched prettily on top. Beside her, Josh looks at the almond, at Margo, and grins one of his ridiculously smitten grins, the ones that say _I can’t believe this is true._ They both look thrilled by the finding. “Looks like I should be looking for bridesmaids.”

“I’m hurt I’m not your first choice, Bambi,” Eliot gasps overly dramatic, making a show of sipping his wine, “you’d be my best man any time.”

“Please,” Margo snorts, raising one perfect eyebrow, “you’re already the maid of honor, bitch.”

They laugh and Eliot turns to tell Mike how they need to go shopping soon, then, for perfect matching suits, but finds him already studying him, a thoughtful tilt on his head. Eliot’s stomach drops. Somehow, that alone is enough to spell trouble.

Although, that’s not the most troubling thing yet. When Eliot says his stomach dropped, he means a one-store fall or maybe a trip on the last step of a set of stairs, the kind that ends with a skinned knee and a tiny scar at most. Not nearly enough to match the high-rise rooftop drop that a breakup should inspire. 

_Well, shit._

“Call me tomorrow,” Margo says as she buttons up her coat, Josh already calling for the elevator, “we need to talk before I leave on Friday.”

“Of course,” he agrees smoothly, escorting her through the short walk to the end of the hall, “Hanukkah with the Hoberman's– you’ll be dazzling the in-laws, Josh tells me.”

Margo makes a face. “God, since when are we adults?”

“It’ll be fine,” Eliot reassures her even as he laughs, even as he considers her question with quiet melancholy. Since when _did_ they become adults? The memories they made in college are still fresh on his mind, or at least the ones that aren’t blurred by alcohol. 

It’s been a while– who allowed time to pass like this?

“Call me,” Margo repeats, stepping inside the elevator with Josh, a threatening finger in his direction, “tomorrow. I’ll come drag your ass to the office if you don’t.”

Her threat is very much real, Eliot knows, but he still laughs again as the doors close on her inevitable grin. Not that it stays on his face for long after that, oh no. Now that she’s gone with Josh, there’s nothing left to delay his conversation with Mike, no more bluffers.

Walking into his own apartment has never felt so daunting.

Mike is in the balcony and it’s snowing outside, the streetlight casting a yellow glow, making his hair look like gold. In the seconds that it takes Eliot to cross the space between them, he aches. Mike is– Eliot adores him with fierce devotion. “Hey there, beautiful,” he says, leaning against the railing beside him and Mike’s already glancing at him with sad eyes. His gaze stays on Eliot like he’s trying to commit him to memory. 

“Eliot,” Mike starts, averts his eyes, “I think– we should talk. About our future.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Mike huffs a laugh but it doesn’t sound particularly happy. It sounds like rattling glass. “Your face– when Margo found the almond, El, I saw your face, you were just so _relieved–”_

“Mike, come on,” Eliot tries, hands reaching for his boyfriend but not quite landing, just hovering over his elbow, like he’s afraid Mike will shake him off. Like that would make this much worse. 

“No, listen,” he shakes his head, takes a step back, and cold air fills the space he had just been, leaving Eliot all the much colder, “this– _tonight,_ it just made me realize this isn’t gonna work. You’re never here, you barely call, and when you are, it’s like– it’s like you don’t _want_ to be here. Is that so– _do you even love me?”_

And isn’t that the million-dollar question?

Eliot wants to say _yes, yes I do, of course I do,_ but the words stick to his throat like tar, choking him slowly until he tastes blood on his tongue. _Do you even love me?_ That’s a shitty ass question. Eliot barely even knows how to love _himself_ most days. How– he doesn’t know _how_ to be in love like Mike wants him to be. Something lacks in him and he just can’t seem to cover it up very well. 

Is _I don’t know_ an acceptable answer?

It should be.

“I do,” Eliot lies through his teeth and Mike shakes his head again, “you know I do. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“Right,” Mike looks down at the street below, snowflakes catching on his hair, “you’re making such a _sacrifice_ to spend the holidays with your _boyfriend.”_

“That’s not what I meant,” he argues, guilt and fear mixing badly in his gut, burning a little too much like anger, “and you know. Don’t twist my words.”

Mike finally glances at him again, eyes set in stone, in _steel._ “Dragging this out is only going to make it worse,” he says, _decides,_ “I deserve better, El.”

That’s not something Eliot can’t refute. Everyone deserves the love they’re ready to give and Mike is just overflowing with a love too kind, too devoted for Eliot. He does deserve better. “I’m sorry,” Eliot settles for, feeling awkward and small, ill-fitting in his skin, “I thought–”

“I know,” Mike nods, smiling kindly, and kisses Eliot for the last time, soft and gentle, “and for the record, you deserve better, too.”

It’s still snowing and the streets are blanketed in white, Mike a small dark figure trekking towards his car as Eliot watches from his balcony. Alone in his empty apartment, his words feel impossibly distant, a dream that’s already fading from memory.

*

There’s something to be said about the traffic the day after a light snowstorm.

And it’s all _bad._

If the car in front of him doesn’t _move_ in the next five minutes, Quentin is going to be officially late and Teddy will give him those huge, sad eyes and say _it’s okay, dad,_ and Quentin’s gonna feel like the world’s worst father ever, because it’s not. _Okay_ , that is. Quentin should be on top of this now. It’s been nearly five years. He should have gotten the hang of this a long time ago.

“Oh, thank god,” he mumbles, driving into the school’s parking lot just in time to hear the bell ring and the cheering of the children. At his left, at a much more sedated pace and looking a lot more collected than him, Alice is approaching, which would honestly be a good thing if Quentin wasn’t feeling so frazzled. 

“Class let out late?” She asks, smiling quietly, her hair shining in the afternoon sun, “or students giving you too much trouble?”

“Both? Maybe?” Quentin snorts, smoothing down his sweater. It screams _teacher_ but he likes how soft it feels and besides, so what? He _is_ a teacher now, might as well commit to it. “High School is very different than I remember.”

Alice snorts. “Okay, that’s because you’re getting old, Mr. Lit 101.”

“Don’t remind me,” he makes a face. His university days were nerve-wracking and stressful to the point of tearing his hair out. In a way, leaving all that behind was a lot less painful than he thought it would be. Being a college professor added nothing but a fancy title to his name and it was _so_ not worth the trouble. As surprising as it sounds, Quentin _likes_ teaching High School. “Charlie’s excited for Christmas?” 

“Excited is a bit of an understatement,” she laughs, eyes flickering to the gate as the children begin trickling out, “one would think he’d get sick of spending time in the mountains.”

Quentin is not sure how he’d answer that so maybe it’s a good thing that Teddy chooses this moment to throw himself at him, little arms wrapping around his middle and face turning up to give him a toothy grin. “Hi, dad!”

“Hey, kid,” he ruffles Teddy’s hair, smiling brighter than he did all morning, “how was your day?”

“Awesome,” Teddy grins, looking back to trade a look with Charlie, “we made Christmas cards and a Christmas list and a Christmas drawing and, and–”

“And a Christmas tree!” Charlie completes, tugging at Alice’s hand as if to demand her attention. As if she doesn’t already dote on her little brother. “You shoulda seen it, Ali, it was _so pretty!”_

“Is that so?” She asks, widening her eyes to properly convey the level of excitement the kids seemed to be expecting and Quentin stifles his own laughter, “how pretty?”

“Uh, super pretty,” Charlie says.

“Super- _duper_ pretty,” Teddy corrects.

To this day, Quentin is still surprised by how well the boys get along. Teddy and Charlie have known each other since kindergarten and their initial claim of being best friends _for life_ seems to be holding up pretty strong. After– after Arielle passed, Quentin isn’t sure Teddy would’ve bounced back as he did without Charlie. 

So if he always lingers a little bit longer at the school’s sidewalk, allowing the boys a few more minutes together, well. Quentin is just glad Teddy found himself his own Julia. 

*

“I can’t believe he dumped you this close to Christmas,” Margo is looking furious, a true avenging goddess, and Eliot almost hopes Mike doesn’t cross her path in the near future, “that’s just _rude.”_

“It wasn’t really his fault, Bambi,” he sighs, spinning on his chair to face his idle computer. On the screen, bubbles bounce around the picture of himself in front of the Sphinx. That had been a good trip, Eliot liked Egypt. “It was better this way.”

“How is any of this better?” She scoffs, rolling her eyes, “honestly, I never liked him all that much anyway. He was always too whiny.”

“He wasn’t whiny,” Eliot feels the need to defend Mike, “you were always too mean to him.”

“Was not,” she replies breezily, “but that’s not the point. The point is: how are you, El? Really?”

Eliot pauses, thinks it over. “Fine,” it’s probably not a good sign for his relationship, really, that he’s _fine_ after it ended, “can’t say I didn’t see it coming.”

For a long moment, Margo studies him, face scrunched up in a carefully blank expression. That’s always a scary thing to find in Margo. “Okay, I believe you,” then, she hesitates, typing something in her own computer, before settling back in her usual confidence, “you know what you need? A distraction. Something to take your mind off the fucker.”

Eliot narrows his eyes. “What kind of distraction?”

“The work kind?” She tilts her screen towards him, a website full of mountain pictures blinking happily at him, “Tick fell through because of fucking course he did, and now I need someone to pick up his slack.”

  
  


Eliot fights off a groan. “Of course he did, it’s _Tick,”_ he sighs, glancing back at her warily, “what’s the story about?”

It’s perhaps almost unnerving how much Margo seems to want to give him this assignment. “Don’t worry, it’s right up your alley,” she pats his arm, smirking, “I need a piece about our good ole old-fashioned American Christmas.”

_What the ever-loving fuck,_ Eliot wants to ask her, staring at her in bewilderment. Is it a bit sad that he can’t for the life of him think of what that would entail? Maybe. But it doesn’t change the fact that this isn’t a very good assignment for him. “I’m not sure– the hell is an American Christmas, Bambi?”

“You know,” she shrugs, making a broad gesture that helps clear out absolutely nothing, “Christmas spirit, joy to the world. All that crap.”

“Sounds like you could write the article yourself,” he points out, not yet sold on the idea, “and it also sounds like there’s more to this.”

Now, her face breaks out in a grin. “Oh, you betcha. Since working on Christmas is a bitch even if you’re the goddamn Grinch yourself, I have been allowed to offer you a weekend in a cabin in the mountains, this pretty little place, all very picturesque. Very Christmasey. Perfect to inspire you into writing the next Pulitzer piece.”

“Really?” Eliot raises one eyebrow, leaning to get a better look at the place’s website. Pine Grove. It sounds vaguely familiar and the photos do paint quite the inviting picture. A nice little place to relax, get some peace and quiet, forget about all the bullshit for a while. And, you know. Eliot _does_ deserve a vacation, damn it. “I mean, it doesn’t look too bad. I could use some time off.”

“See?” Margo says, leaning back on her chair, looking very much like the cat who got the canary, “you’re all signed up already, all you have to do is go chill the fuck out.”

Of course she had already filled everything up before even asking him.

“Hey,” she reaches for his hand, covering it with hers and sounding softer than he’s heard her in years, “I’m really sorry about Mike.”

Itching for the flask he always keeps on his coat, Eliot sighs, laces their fingers together. “What would I do without you?”

“Write horribly nonsensical pieces,” she shakes her head, smiling a bit sadly, “this will be good for you, El.”

Eliot is not entirely sure he believes her yet, but Margo has been his best friend for years and his editor for even longer– trusting her has always been the best he could do.

*

There’s something bothering Teddy, Quentin can tell, and it’s not only saying goodbye to his friends for the Holidays, clearly, but he figures giving the kid a little bit more time to talk to him at his own terms would be better than pressing.

It’s not like Teddy ever had problems saying what he’s thinking.

“Charlie’s going to a cabin,” Teddy finally speaks, his hands folded neatly on his lap– he’s being the picture-perfect of a well-behaved child and that only ever means there’s something he wants to ask. “In the mountains, for Christmas.”

Well, it certainly took less than Quentin expected, they haven’t even made it off the lawn yet. “That’s nice,” he hums idly, hauling Charlie’s bright backpack with him.

“Yup,” Teddy bobs his head, nodding, nodding, nodding, and then, “ _so nice–_ dad, why don’t we do things like that anymore?”

_And there it is._ Quentin pauses to look properly at him, pointedly not thinking about Arielle with snow in her hair and gingerbread in the oven. What– I mean, well. It’s been– I just didn’t think that was something you’d like to do,” _not anymore,_ he adds silently with an ache less painful than he’s imagined it would be.

“Oh,” Teddy says thoughtfully, slowing his own step. His lunchbox is still swinging at his side and Quentin has to hurry to rescue his sweater from slipping from his waist and dropping into the muddy grass. “Okay,” then, “I do. Want to do it, I mean. Ever since,” he sniffles a little, glancing down at his sneakers, “you know, _mom,_ we didn’t do anything for Christmas.”

“We have dinner with Jules,” Quentin answers on automatic before grimacing apologetically, “do you miss it?”

Teddy nods again, making grabby hands for his bag on Quentin’s shoulders and immediately starts rooting inside it when he’s handed it back. He pulls out a wrinkled paper, smoothes it out on his knee, and presents it to Quentin with a sheepish smile. “Miss Schiff told us to make a list.”

_The Perfect Christmas_ is written on top in Teddy’s messy childish scrawl and the little Santa hats doodled in red crayon scattered all around is enough that Quentin just knows this is going straight to the fridge door. In any case, he dutifully continues reading. “You came up with this yourself?”

“Yes. Well,” he amends, sheepish, “Charlie helped a little, but here, look, “ he stands on his tiptoes to peer at the paper, “I put everything I remembered from– from that time we went there with mom.”

_Oh._

“It’s all I remember from Christmas anyway,” he continues, shrugging half-heartedly, and Quentin’s heart cracks a little more at the sight, “so. Can we?”

“Go to a cabin this year?” He muses out loud, already running through the strings he’ll have to pull to find an empty place this late in the season. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes! Please, dad, can we?” Teddy perks up considerably, tiny hands closing around fistfuls of his shirt, “we could make a snowman and have a real tree and gingerbread and, and, and– _can we, please?”_

And how could anyone say no to that face?

Quentin sighs, trying not to make a promise he’s not sure he can keep. “I’ll have to see if there’s anything available,” he holds up a hand before Teddy could begin celebrating, “I’m saying I’ll try, okay? It’s a _maybe,_ not a _yes.”_

Not that _that_ matters to a kid anyway. Teddy completely ignores his warning, grinning brightly as he wraps his bony arms around his waist. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Sure thing, kiddo,” he ruffles his hair, “now why don’t you go tell Jules the news?”

“Aunt Jules!” Teddy scrambles to run up the steps, barging inside with all the excitement of a kid before Christmas.

Hanging back a little, Quentin takes his time tying his shoes and adjusting his grip on Teddy’s backpack. It had been only two months after Arielle died when Christmas rolled around that year and Quentin had been so heartbroken then, really, too consumed by a grief that felt so large, he hadn’t thought he’d be able to walk away from it. With him, it’s always like that, he feels too much, sadness has always clung to him easiest of all. Those months afterward, Julia had spent mostly picking up the pieces of him and handing them back, letting him glue them back together himself. She had let him cry on her shoulder late at night and she had dragged him out of bed every morning, and when he answered her tentative questions about Christmas with a detached shrug, she had simply studied him with sad eyes before nodding.

He’s not proud of how he handled it and he’s even less proud of allowing it to continue for another three years, guilt now coiling hot on his stomach. If for nothing else, he should’ve done it for Teddy; he deserves good Christmas memories that aren’t restricted to pre-made lasagnas and cheap plastic trees.

_“Coldwater,”_ Julia pokes her head outside, glaring playfully at him, “are going to keep dilly-dallying all day?”

From inside, he can hear Teddy’s giggles. He trades a look with Julia and they both smile. “Sorry, ma’am.”

She huffs. “Hurry up, slowpoke, and tell your little menace that I can’t run off to the mountains with you two.”

“Don’t know about that,” Quentin says as innocently as he can, “what was it you said– oh, right, _you need to get out more, it’s not healthy to stay locked up inside all day.”_

“Hey now,” she pokes his shoulder as he passes her, closing the door behind him, “don’t throw my words back at me.”

Teddy is already sitting in one of the stools by the counter, legs dangling happily and nursing a Capri sun. See, this is what he means when he says Julia spoils him. “Please, Aunt Jules, _please,”_ he begs, eyes going round and huge, “it wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“My thesis,” Julia trails off helplessly, dropping down on the couch. Around her, there’s a hurricane of papers and the little light on her laptop is blinking red to warn she forgot to plug in the charger again. “I can’t just– I’m sorry, bear, there’s just too much to do!”

Plugging in the charger for her, Quentin squints. “Is this about James?”

She scowls on reflex. “Not everything is about James. James’s over, I’m over him.”

“Never said you weren’t,” he raises his hands defensively, “I only meant, you’ve been here, uh, _a lot_ since you guys broke up.”

“Lotsa times,” Teddy agrees sagely, munching his straw.

“That’s not true,” Quentin gives her a _look_ and she backtracks, “okay, it’s a little true, but I still have to defend my thesis.”

“You could come up after,” he suggests, ducking into the kitchen. There are grocery bags on the table, a sure sign Julia has, in fact, noticed how much time she’s spending here, and Quentin shakes his head, makes a mental note to put all this away later, wonders if he could get away with heating up pre-made mac and cheese for dinner without Teddy catching on. Either way, he looks over the counter into the living room. “If I’m already banned from being there for you anyway.”

“You _are_ there for me enough, Q,” Julia softens, folding her legs under her, “I just– I need to do this alone, you being there would only make me more nervous.”

Truthfully, he’s very tempted to call it bullshit, but god knows Teddy is already testing the waters on which words he’s allowed to say. “In that case,” he cocks his eyebrow.

Huffing, she runs a hand through her hair. “Both of you giving me puppy eyes is not fair,” Teddy grins, leaning over to high-five him in victory before Julia even finishes sighing long-suffering, “but I suppose I could drive up later.”

Quentin is pretty sure one of the items on Teddy’s list had been _family._ He wonders if they can cross that out now.

*

Traveling all over the world certainly plays a hand on raising his standards more than a little bit when it comes to new places, or, as Margo would say, turning him into a _snob motherfucker._

There’s nothing snobbish about his opinion when he calls Pine Grove a _quaint little town_. It’s the kind of place made for Christmas– the snow falling gently suits it in a way that turns everything softer, kinder, and the Christmas decorations flood the streets with colorful light. 

Despite the cold, Eliot is warmed.

The bell above the door rings cheerfully when he enters the hardware store, although calling it a _hardware store_ might be an understatement; like in all small towns, this shop seems to sell anything one might need at any time.

“Hello, welcome to Fogg’s,” a grinning teenager appears in front of Eliot, reciting the words with the excitement of someone who hasn’t had to actually utter the greeting in a very long time. _Jesus,_ isn’t this supposed to be a popular tourist spot? “My name’s Eliot, how can I help you today?”

Eliot scrunches his nose in distaste, taking in the garish green apron, the dorky smile, the sensible sneakers. “Now, that won’t do,” he decides, “what’s your middle name?”

“Todd?” The teenager answers dubiously, wavering in his puppy excitement.

“Is that a– _Christ,_ alright, _Todd,”_ Eliot smiles benevolently, “I’m here for the cabin’s keys.”

“Uh,” Todd blinks, seeming to have a hard time keeping up and _fine,_ he supposes that’s hardly his fault. It’s not every day an exceedingly handsome stranger renames you, he supposes. “That’s with Dean Fogg,” he shakes his head, perhaps deciding to just take it in stride. Smart choice. “This way, please.”

“Dean?” Eliot asks idly while he’s led to the counter.

“Yeah, he used to be the dean of the nearby community college before he retired here,” he shrugs, slipping behind the counter and into the backroom to fetch his boss, a bald man Eliot can easily see as the tired professor-ish type that would’ve been resigned at his college days antics. 

“You must be Eliot Waugh?” Fogg regards him just as warily as Eliot imagines he would his students, sizing him up in a quick glance before offering his hand, “Henry Fogg, we spoke over the phone.”

“Yes, it’s a pleasure,” he shakes his hand firmly, whispers of his father’s dried-up words scratching the back of his mind, “Todd says you have my keys?”

Fogg frowns. “Todd?”

“He means me,” Todd pipes in.

“Oh, well,” he considers it wryly amused, “that does avoid a mix-up.”

“I guess,” Todd says, glancing down mournfully at his nametag.

Opening a drawer under the register, Fogg pulls out a set of keys. “Here you go, Mr. Waugh. I trust you know how to get there?”

Eliot pockets them, smirks. “My GPS certainly does.”

“I wish you all the luck, then,” Fogg chuckles, “and if you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to give us a call.”

Eliot doesn’t think there’s any place else that would be close to helpful but chooses not to mention this out loud. Small towns, that’s something he’s regretfully familiar with. Of course, this place looks nothing like rural Indiana, there’s a comforting lack of soy plantations around. 

The bell rings in goodbye and Todd waves from where he’s moved to restock something or other, Eliot wraps his coat tighter around himself before braving the snowy winds.

Outside, there’s a startling amount of people walking around, seeming unbothered by the cold, and he gives himself a moment to steady himself. His car is parked just across the street and he shakes snowflakes from his hair, turning the heat up all the way to warm up his bones; the drive is not long, but fuck if it isn’t freezing cold.

He tries fiddling with the radio, but only finds static and bits of Christmas songs, even tries calling up Margo, but his cell phone sign is teetering on the edge of nonexistent, so the staggering relief that washes over him when the cabin finally comes into view should be entirely understandable.

Looking at it through the foggy windshield, Eliot has no idea where to start his story– but this, after all, might not be the end of the world.

*

Pine Grove looks about just like it did four years ago and Quentin is surprisingly okay with that. There’s something comforting about the familiarity of it all. 

Checking to see if Teddy’s thick coat is still zipped all the way up, he takes the opportunity to fuss over his knitted hat, his gloves, his scarf. It’s too cold to take any chances, getting sick would definitely put a damper on things.

“I’m fine, dad,” Teddy mumbles crossly, eyes darting around the street and getting caught at something behind his shoulder. He lights up with a smile, “Charlie!”

Quentin lets him tug him forward, stumbling to whirl around, and shares an amused, understanding smile with Alice over the kids’ heads. Under the early street light, she looks untouchably beautiful and there was a time Quentin thinks he might’ve been caught in her orbit. It’s very easy to fall in love with Alice Quinn, he thinks, and he loves her fiercely, but between sharing coffee over playdates and conversations during boring parent-teacher conferences, they settled in an even easier friendship. He loves her too much to be in love with her, in the end. 

“So you guys made it,” Alice says once they’re within earshot, glancing ruefully at the instant conversation Charlie strikes with Teddy, and her smile now is all warmth. “I’m glad.”

“Yeah,” he fiddles with the keys, muscle memory itching to send it dancing across his knuckles like a coin, “last open cabin– a Christmas miracle, I guess.”

She laughs, startled and bright. “This does look like a place for a holiday miracle.”

“There’s a lot of, uh, _Christmas spirit_ here, yes,” he makes a face, thinking of the absurd amount of decorations he’s seen in the short time he’s been here. It’s a bit as if a Holiday store threw up on the streets and no one bothered to clean up. 

The children are still talking excitedly with each other, or maybe _at_ each other, Quentin is not entirely sure, and he spares a moment to smile at the scene. Teddy’s bright smile is enough to make this trip worth it.

“So,” Alice clears her throat, adjusting her surprisingly clean glasses, “any plans?”

“Oh, hm,” he squirms under her curious gaze. Should he have made plans? Is that a thing? The last time he came here they had mostly winged it, or so Quentin remembers, but maybe he should have planned this better, looked up kid-friendly activities nearby, or–

“Hey, stop that,” she snaps her fingers in his face, snorting, “you’re overthinking this. I only meant we should do set up some playdates. Charlie would love to spend more time with Teddy.”

Quentin exhales, relieved. “Yeah, that sounds– yeah, Teddy would love that, too.”

She pauses, considers that, and her eyes dart around quickly before settling somewhere at the left of his shoulder. “And I suppose I wouldn’t mind company, either.”

“Me, er, me too,” he half-shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. His grown-up company lately has been pretty limited to Julia and brief, idle conversations in the teacher’s lounge– _god,_ it would be nice to be around other adults for a change. “Anyway, we should–”

“Oh, of course,” Alice smiles, tugging lightly at Charlie’s gloved hand, “come on, we should let them settle in now, Charlie, you can talk with Teddy later.”

The kid makes a disgruntled face, turns up big doe eyes to her. “Promise, Ali?”

“Pinky promise,” she winks, ruffling his hair, and grins her goodbye to them, “considering the size of the town, I think it’s fair to say we’ll see you guys around.”

“Bye, Charlie!” Teddy waves cheerfully with a toothy smile, rocking on the balls of his feet, “bye, Alice!”

As he watches Alice walk away with her brother, Quentin is once again gratefully relieved. Having a familiar face around is more of a comfort than he’d care to admit. ‘Sides, there’s no way Alice doesn’t have a whole binder on what to do for fun around here, even if her idea of _fun_ can be a little, well, very _Alice-ish._

He steers Teddy to their car. The way up the mountain is long and filled with trees, blanketed with snow and reflecting off white light, and Quentin smiles at Teddy’s excited babbling, pointing out what he thinks are possible candidates for their Christmas Tree. 

Quentin hasn’t the heart to tell him no.

They’ll just have to make a trip to the nearest farm, he supposes.

But all that flies out of his mind when the cabin comes into view. It's not an imposing building, per se, but there's a warm atmosphere to it– the dark wood contrasts starkly with the snow and a faint trail of smoke floats up to the sky 

_How thoughtful,_ Quentin thinks gratefully, _to have the fireplace running._

“Come on,” he unlocks the door, shuffling Teddy inside and snorting when he runs straight to the backyard, squealing happily at the extensive lawn.

Then, Quentin frowns.

While the interior of the place is beautiful, with fluffy pillows on the couch and classic decorations, a few things stand out– a coat over a chair, an open wine bottle on the counter, a cigarette butt in the ashtray.

If Quentin didn't know better, he’d think–

“Stay where you are!” A man bursts out of the bedroom, his arms flailing maniacally, “you chose the wrong cabin to rob, buddy– I have a black belt in Krav Maga!”

And maybe it's because he's still tired from the trip or maybe it's the ridiculous picture this guy paints in his living room, kicking and punching the air, but all Quentin says is, “I don’t think that’s how Krav Maga works.”

It gives the man pause. “Excuse me?”

“Black belt, I don’t think–” he shakes his head, focuses on more important things, “I’m sorry, but who are you and what are you doing in my cabin?”

“I don't know what game you're playing,” the man glares, doing yet another terrible flailing arms, “but I'm calling the police.”

Quentin thinks of Teddy and how this is spiraling quickly out of control, but before he could say anything else to try and appease this crazy person out of maybe murdering them, Teddy runs back inside, skidding to a stop at his side.

“Hm, hello?” He says to the man and Quentin shoots an arm to push him behind him. Honestly, it's not like he thinks this guy could actually be dangerous, but his flailing _could_ hit someone in the face. 

“You brought a _child_ to your break-in?”

The man looks more bewildered than anything now, giving Quentin the opportunity to hedge in with an explanation. He thinks he might have an inkling of what's going on here. “No, I’m, uh, I booked this cabin.”

“Impossible,” his glare eases into a frown, “ _I_ booked this cabin.”

Their eyes meet for a second as the realization dawns at the same time.

“We should call Fogg,” he says after they both have dug out their papers.

Quentin has a horrible feeling about this.

*

“I’m sorry for earlier,” Eliot says with a sigh as they stand in the porch, “if it helps, I don't actually know Krav Maga.”

The man he had previously labeled _dorky criminal,_ Quentin, does a half shrug, waving off his apology. “It was an honest mix-up.”

“Yes,” he nods, fiddling with the handle of his suitcase. While he didn't want to spend his few days off here in the first place, now he finds himself reluctant to leave. Margo would be terribly smug if she knew. “And certainly Todd’s fault.”

“Who's Todd?” Quentin’s eyebrows draw together in confusion.

Of all the people that could have booked the same cabin as Eliot, the universe could have been kinder and picked someone less cute, _honestly._

“You know Todd,” Eliot says dismissively. The less said about that kid, the better– Eliot might still be pissed about this situation, after all. “Anyway, I _am_ sorry for the trouble.”

“It’s okay. And I'm sorry your holidays were ruined, I guess I get why there wouldn't be any other available cabins, but still,” Quentin seems to notice his own babbling halfway, ducking his head to hide a grimace, “I’d offer to leave, but–”

Both their eyes fall on the kid playing in the snow around the driveway. “You have a child,” Eliot finishes for him, “it is quite alright.”

“Thanks,” he smiles and Eliot is suddenly glad they won't see each other again because _oh, that's trouble._ “I, uh, see you around?”

Eliot nods goodbye, sending a wave to the grinning kid as he drags his bags back to his car. So much for a peaceful vacation. It serves Margo right, he thinks, for scheming behind his back. He turns the key with a gleeful vengeance, already thinking about the best way to start _that_ phone call–

_Oh no._

Oh _hell_ no.

His car sputters, making a stuttering sound that it definitely shouldn't be making, and Eliot is no car expert, but he’s going out on a limb here and say _this is not good._

A knock on his window. Quentin is grimacing at him. “The couch is still free if you need?”

Eliot glances at the smoke slowly wafting from the engine and the dashboard clock tells him it's nearing four o’clock. No mechanic would dare come up the mountain in this snow this late; he's stuck here until the morning at the very least.

“I think I’ll have to take you up on that,” he says, sighing. 

Just one night and then he'll leave. It'll be fine. He'll call Fogg in the morning and someone in that store will know a good mechanic. Eliot will be on his track back to New York before sundown, he's sure.

Just for tonight, he'll stay.

*

The next morning finds Quentin blearily walking past the living room as quiet as he can, careful not to wake up the man sleeping on the couch, and secluding himself in the porch to call Julia.

“I’m not freaking out,” is how she greets him, sounding very much like she’s freaking out, “I just drank like, five cups of coffee, but everything’s fine.”

“Okay,” he coughs to hide a snort, “I’d say everything _is_ going to be fine, but since you’re _not_ freaking out…”

She groans. “I’m freaking out.”

“You’ve been working on your thesis for two years now,” he points out, watching a squirrel sniff around the garden, “you’ll dazzle them, Jules.”

“I– no, nope, can’t talk about it,” she announces, cupboard noises echoing through the line, “tell me about the cabin.”

Quentin cringes and a few feet away, the squirrel finds a nut. “It’s uh,” he clears his throat, “there’s been an issue.”

All noises die down on Julia’s side. “An issue? Is everything okay? Is Teddy okay? Are _you_ okay?”

“Oh, no, no, it’s fine,” he hurries out, “it’s just– we have a guest? Fogg booked our cabin to someone else too and the guy– he did give us the spot! But uh, his car broke down? Yeah, so now he’s sleeping on the couch.”

“Hold on, hold on, he– who’s sleeping on your couch?”

“This guy– Eliot Waugh, he’s some sort of journalist I think? I heard him muttering about his editor.”

A beat. “Okay, I just googled his name,” she says slowly, “and woah, okay, Mr. Travel Writer here, that's fancy.”

Quentin hums in agreement. “Really? He looks, uh, fancy.”

“Is that your way of saying he's hot?” Julia snickers.

“No! I hadn't,” he hesitates. _Hadn't he, though?_ “I hadn't noticed.”

“Sure you haven’t, Q.”

“Jules–”

He hears her sigh on the other side. “I know, I know. It's just, it's been almost five years, Q.”

This time, he's the one sighing. “I know, but it's not like that. And he'll be gone by tomorrow the latest anyway. Sooner, even.”

“Okay, I won't push,” she assures him, “Hey, I have to go now, but I should be by before seven. Hopefully earlier if traffic is not much of a nightmare.”

“Go get ‘em, Jules,” he says with a smile. He'd say good luck, but he truly doesn't think she needs it.

Well, then. Now he really does need to get on with his day.

And by getting on with his day he means returning to the kitchen to make breakfast and fixing Teddy’s coat, buttoning up and wrapping him in a scarf before they go tree hunting.

Teddy is beyond excited about everything.

He seems to be under the impression they're adopting Eliot like a stray. It's sweet that he wants to help the man, but Eliot will probably be off to New York before Christmas Eve, and besides, it's not like they _know_ Eliot.

Some distance would probably be good.

“Hi,” a voice comes from the doorway and Quentin turns to see Eliot, as if summoned by Quentin's thoughts, leaning against the wall, looking almost awkward if he were anyone else. “I hear you’re going tree picking?”

“Yup,” Teddy grins, excitedly tugging on his hat, “we need to find the bestest!”

“Is that so?” Eliot’s lips twitch in an almost-smile and he runs a hand through his hair, “about that– I have this article to write, it's about Christmas traditions, you know, Holiday spirit and all that jazz, so I was wondering if I could join you?”

“Tree picking?” Quentin's eyebrows raise.

“Yes,” Eliot shrugs, carefully careless, “it'll be a while until I hear from the garage, so I figured I should do some research, make myself useful.”

Quentin hesitates. There, against the tacky wallpaper of the kitchen, Eliot doesn't look dangerous or insane– _intimidating_ , maybe, but that says more, perhaps, about Quentin than him.

“Do you know anything about trees, mister?” Teddy asks, all serious.

Eliot twitches again, something flickering too fast in his eyes. “I know a little, yes. Why?”

“Dad,” Teddy says, “he has to come with us. You don't know anything about trees!”

While that draws infinite splutter from Quentin, it brings a huff of laughter out of Eliot. “Well in that case,” Quentin snorts, admitting defeat under Teddy’s determined look, “I guess, you’re welcome to come with?”

“Please,” Teddy adds, “dad killed a cactus once.”

Another laugh from Eliot and Quentin throws his hands up, pretending to be too annoyed to feel the blood rushing to his cheeks– while he's never been very good at holding eye contact, there's something different about meeting Eliot’s gaze that leaves him more flustered than usual.

So instead of overthinking, he makes a conscious effort of focusing on the smaller things, one at a time. 

Take his coat. 

Make sure Teddy is all bundled up for the weather. 

Get his keys. 

Lock all the doors. 

Drive.

Drive.

Drive.

Drive.

Drive.

Drive– 

“So,” Eliot says in the passenger seat, “a cactus?”

Quentin clears his throat. “Yeah, it, uh, it was in my office. I got it as a gift and– kind of forgot about it?”

“Okay, office job then,” he muses and Quentin doesn't dare glance away from the road, “let me guess– lawyer?”

For a second, he entertains the idea. It makes him shudder. “God no,” he laughs, “English teacher now, but I used to be a Literature professor.”

Eliot nods thoughtfully. “Fancy,” then, “it suits you.”

What even. “Uh, thanks?”

_“We’re here!”_ Teddy squeals, plastering himself to the window.

And indeed, they’re there.

Woods rise tall towards the sky, leaves dusted with snow, and in front of them, the farm gates are open in welcome, paved road leading up to the main house. With the pine smell faintly surrounding the air outside, Quentin grins. 

It _is_ kinda beautiful.

“We should get the biggest one,” Teddy is telling Eliot as Quentin rescues the saw from the trunk. “So it looks real pretty when we decorate it.”

They follow the trail into the woods, Eliot humming something cheerful under his breath, and honestly, if you ask Quentin, all the trees look pretty much identical, but this whole Christmas business seems to be clearly important to Teddy, so he allows himself to be pulled further along, listening to his son's Many Different Opinions on Pine Trees.

“You, uh, are a journalist, then?” He asks Eliot, “I mean, you mentioned writing an article?”

Eliot nods, “travel writer. It's an interesting job.”

“It– yeah, you must travel a lot,” he glances sideways at him, smiles, “seen lots of things.”

“Indeed. It's why I chose it,” Eliot returns him a wistful smile, “I couldn't see myself settling down– wanted to see the world too much, you know?”

Quentin thinks of the Fillory map he and Julia carved when they were eight years old and the real world had seemed unfairly harsh. Yeah, he knows. And maybe he opens his mouth to say something of the sort, but before he can find the words, Teddy calls, waving impatiently at them. “This is the one,” he says, eyes full of wonder as he takes in the tree, “what do you think, Eliot?”

“Hm, as an expert,” Eliot hums amused, makes a show of circling it, examining the bark, the leaves, the roots, and nods seriously, “I would label it _perfect._ Good choice, kid.”

“Well, if the professionals say so,” Quentin says, hiding a grin, “who am I to disagree?”

The process of cutting it down, though, is much harder than he had expected it. Not that Quentin had expected it to be _easy,_ but _come on,_ is it supposed to take like, twenty minutes? He should’ve googled it first. No, he should have waited for Julia, she would’ve known better than go in blind in this. 

Still, a few more minutes of sawing and it’s starting to sway, so he pauses, asks Teddy, “do you want to do the honors?”

Surprisingly, his son doesn’t jump at the opportunity. Instead, he bites his lip and looks back at Eliot, “do _you_ want to do it?”

“What?” The man sounds startled, blinking down at Teddy like he’s having trouble comprehending his words, “oh, no, I couldn’t possibly–”

“Nah, it’s okay,” Teddy shrugs, “you should do it, you’re the _expert.”_

Privately, Quentin thinks it’s the way Teddy frowns in concentration to say the word _expert_ correctly that chips away at Eliot’s hesitation, even if there’s something shuttered at his eyes. “I suppose I am, aren’t I?”

To be fair, he does look more comfortable with the saw than Quentin had been.

“Teddy,” Eliot says once it's done, “would you be a dear and take a picture? I know someone who would get a kick out of this.”

He hands an awestruck Teddy a camera, rather professional looking. “Just press the button?”

“Yes, just press the button.”

“Be careful with it,” Quentin warns, more out of duty than any real fear, “you don't want to break something that's not yours.”

“It’s fine,” Eliot waves off his concern, “this old thing– I've been meaning to buy a new one for ages. In fact,” he smiles, “you'd be doing me a favor by taking it off my hands.”

“Really?” Teddy nearly jumps in excitement, turning to Quentin with pleading eyes, “can I, dad, please?”

“Oh, I don't know, this seems too expensive–”

Eliot’s hand on his arm cuts him off. “Please, I truly need a new one, my job requires it, and this one would just go to waste. And it's the least I can do, considering I'm crashing your holiday.”

Normally, Quentin would still protest it's too much, but it _is_ Christmas and when he looks at Eliot, he can't find a lie in his eyes. Eliot, he notices, has very expressive eyes.

So today, he just smiles. “Alright then, thank you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Eliot,” Teddy recites dutifully, if in a hurry, before donning a dramatically professional tone, “now, please, a little more to the right. Better light.”

_And that_ , Quentin supposes, _is that._

Best not to overthink this either. Which yes, he knows it's nearly impossible for him, overthinking is what he does best after all, but it's the thought that counts.

Right?

It's also why, an hour later, when they’re all back in the cabin and Eliot knocks hesitantly on his bedroom with an uncharacteristically sheepish expression to tell him that while his car _would_ be ready by tomorrow, the bridge is closed because of the snow, Quentin takes little time to come to a decision and say, “you can stay here until then if you want, it's no trouble.”

Eliot blinks in surprise. “Thank you.”

“Don't mention it,” is all he says. This is only the right thing to do, the decent thing to do. After all, there would be no rooms available in town this close to Christmas. What was Quentin supposed to do– leave Eliot to sleep in a snowstorm?

*

According to Teddy’s List to a Perfect Christmas, decorating a real Christmas tree ranks as number four, only one step below finding the tree itself.

If you ask Eliot, it's not a half-bad way to spend his afternoon.

Apparently, the Coldwaters have _a lot_ of decorations Quentin dug up from his parent’s attic, and the kid is determined to use them all up.

“What do you think?” The kid asks, “more lights?”

“I don't know,” Eliot glances at the light socket, “I'm not sure we should push our luck too much. Why don't we add more tinsel?”

“It _does_ sparkle,” and man, this child is a riot. “What do you think, dad?”

Quentin looks rather frazzled, taking in the tree with what seems equal parts wonder and fear. Which, to be fair, is quite a fair reaction to this tinsel monstrosity. “I think– yes?”

That very dubious agreement is all Teddy needs to dive into a new box to dig out more tinsel.

During his own childhood, Eliot remembers Christmas as a more or less stiff and formal time of the year. He remembers his father bringing in the tree and his mother decorating half-heartedly a sad green-and-white thing, and he remembers going to Mass. He remembers the smell of the pig being cooked and the apple pie in the oven. 

He does not remember laughing like Teddy's been doing all afternoon or someone holding him or any of his brother's up to place the angel on top of the tree.

Not for the first time, he finds himself nostalgic over a different sort of life.

It's with this cheerful thought that Eliot greets the newcomer suddenly swinging the door open. 

_This_ , he realizes, _must be Julia._

“Aunt Jules!” Teddy dashes to the parlor, colliding with her at full speed and wrapping his arms around her middle. In all fairness, the woman is unfazed by it, apparently used to this kind of greeting. “Look! We decorated the tree!”

Quentin had followed at a slower pace, pausing in the threshold to grin up at her. “So, how did it go?”

“Well,” Julia seems to be struggling to hide her own smile as she draws out the suspense, “I suppose you’ll have to call me Dr. Wick from now on.”

“You did it!” He steps up to hug her, positively beaming, and Eliot takes the moment to shove down the twinge of _something_ that sparks in his chest at the sight. Of all the people to book the same cabin as him, did it have to someone so cute? _Honestly._

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Eliot finally speaks once the family has settled in their enthusiasm, and offers her his hand, “Eliot Waugh.”

“Thank you,” she smiles politely and surprisingly genuine, “Julia Wick, I’m a friend of Quentin’s.”

“Best friend,” said man corrects her, still beaming, “sister, really, at this point.”

_That’s interesting,_ flits through Eliot’s mind quickly. “How sweet,” he hums, “I’m terribly sorry for intruding on your holiday. I trust Quentin already explained the situation?”

Julia nods. “He did, he told me all about you! I’m sorry about your car,” she says with yet another genuine concerned expression. “I hope is nothing serious?”

“The mechanic assured me it’s normal in this kind of weather,” he waves off her concern, “it should be ready tomorrow afternoon, but until the bridge is open–”

“You’re stuck here,” she finishes with a grimace.

“Yes, and Quentin was kind enough to allow me to stay.”

There’s a question in the middle and Eliot is sure Julia hears it, she seems like a quite smart woman, and he pretends not to notice the look she trades with her friend. “That’s Q for you,” she says, “and I agree with him. You should stay.”

“For as long as you like,” adds Quentin, quietly.

This time, when he says _thank you,_ Eliot isn’t sure for what exactly, he means it.

With the introductions out of the way, Julia takes her leave to settle down in the spare bedroom, unpack and decompress from what must have been a very stressful situation. Defending her thesis to a table of what Eliot is going to assume are mostly white old men must have been nerve-wracking, he wouldn’t judge her for wanting to nap until dinner.

But as he was about to find out, Julia Wicker is not the napping kind. She’s a bit like Margo, he thinks, if gentler, but every bit the hurricane Margo can be. Instead of relaxing, she starts digging around in the kitchen, cabinets opening and closing, the refrigerator humming, and not even a minute later, she pokes her head around the counter, “by any chance, did any of you remember to go grocery shopping?” 

Both he and Quentin freeze guiltily. “Oh. No?”

“In my defense, I thought I’d be flying back to New York by now,” is his truthfully weak excuse.

Naturally, this means they end up spending an hour and a half in the local grocery store, most of it staring at the shelves in hope of finding what would be the easiest to make. Their cart is filled with pre-made stuff and what they think might be the basic ingredients to whatever any of them could feel like making. 

And Eliot has always hated doing grocery runs in the past, but today, it’s not so much of a nightmare. There’s some cheesy Christmas song playing on the speakers and the air smells faintly of cinnamon, and halfway through a discussion of which brand of mac and cheese they should pick, he realizes this is the first time he and Quentin had been properly alone. 

It shouldn’t feel different.

And yet, Eliot still stutters in the middle of a sentence as his brain catches up, and when he looks at Quentin he thinks the universe really must hate him to dangle something so tempting in front of him and expect him to forget all about it come New Year. 

He can’t believe his life some days.

They’re _grocery shopping_ for fuck’s sake, this is just ridiculous. So ridiculous he almost wonders if Margo has something to do with this.

Of course, his reality check arrives not even half an hour later when they’re putting the bags in the car and it comes in the form of a pretty blonde with sharp blue eyes behind her glasses.

“Alice,” Quentin says, smiling, “this is Eliot, his car broke down so he’s staying with us for now. Eliot, this is Alice, she’s the sister of Teddy’s best friend.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” he shakes her hand, his charm taking over with little effort, and she nods politely with an equally polite _likewise._ Her gaze is assessing, seizing him up, undoubtedly trying to understand why on earth Quentin would let a stranger into his cabin. Fair enough, Eliot wonders about that sometimes too.

“So,” she finally glances away and her eyes immediately soften as they land on Quentin, “enjoying your stay so far?”

Not exactly keen on being a part of the conversation, Eliot resumes putting away the bags in the trunk of Quentin’s car. Still, he can’t help listening in on the conversation and _holy shit,_ it’s almost funny how oblivious Quentin seems to be at her flirting. Alright, in his defense, she _is_ being rather subtle, but _come on._ No one stops to chit chat in the snow for nothing. 

If he’s being perfectly honest, Eliot has to admit they would make a cute couple. Very all-american white picket fence and a house in the ‘burbs. It would be easy, he thinks, would make sense– would _be_ sensible. 

Eliot glances away.

“Oh, thank you,” Quentin appears at his side, peering at the neatly stacked paper bags, “you didn’t, uh, you didn’t have to do all the work.”

“It’s quite alright,” he shakes his head, forces his lips to curl into a smirk, “you seemed busy flirting shamelessly over there.”

Like clockwork, Quentin goes red in an instant. “It’s not like that,” he argues, “Alice’s a friend, just that.”

Clapping him once in the shoulder, Eliot rounds the car to slip on the passenger side. “I’m sure, loverboy.”

“It’s _really_ not like that,” Quentin keeps denying, hunching his shoulders as if he could disappear in his coat, “maybe like, a year ago, but– we’re just friends.”

Eliot shifts uncomfortably in his seat but because he’s never been too kind to himself, continues needling, “okay, but I’m just saying– she wants to climb you like a Christmas tree.”

_That_ causes a reaction. _“Eliot!”_ If he thought Quentin had been blushing before, _oh boy,_ this is a whole ‘nother level. Eliot is almost impressed. “That’s not– oh my god, you’re _impossible!”_

Maybe it’s the sudden fondness on his voice, but Eliot grins. Things don’t look quite so bleak anymore. And if he abstains of anymore teasing until arriving in the cabin, well, he’s always been smart enough to end things on a high note.

So after Quentin shoos him from helping unpack, Eliot makes a beeline for his phone, sequestering himself in the back yard to finally make the dreadful phone call he’s been avoiding.

Predictably, Margo finds the whole situation hilarious. “Bambi,” he frowns, “a little support would be nice.”

“I’m sorry,” she hiccups, “it’s just– only you, El, only you would find yourself in these situations.”

“Yeah, well, it looks less funny from my end, trust me,” his scowl is more out of principle, knowing she’ll hear it in his voice. 

“Come on, you have to admit it, it _is_ a little funny. Besides,” now, he hears the smirk on _her_ voice, “it sounds like you’re having fun with your hot teacher.”

Well, this one is on him– he should’ve known she would google Quentin as soon as she learned his name. “He’s not my anything,” he answers easily, carefully keeping his voice breezy. Margo, he knows, is like a shark for these things; she’ll smell the blood in the water from miles and a whole lot of states away. “And if you must know, I hadn’t noticed he was cute.”

She laughs. “El, you’re a shitty fucking liar. Boy’s exactly your type: dorky, nerdy, pretty.”

“Even if you’re right,” Eliot sighs, “I’m not up for a competition– little Miss Girl Next Door can have him.”

“Don’t be a cock,” Margo says, probably rolling her eyes, “and stop angsting, no one likes a fucking martyr. So go there and rebound like a normal person– by getting laid.”

Again, Eliot grimaces at his own lack of feelings regarding his break up. Margo talks about rebounding, but he thinks that would imply a level of caring beyond the disappointment he feels when he thinks of Mike and that disaster of a dinner party.

“And how are the Hobbermans?” Not his smoothest subject change, but hopefully it'll do.

Margo snorts. “Subtle,” and yet, she allows it, “great. I'm not sure if they love me or hate me, but no one's dead yet, so.”

After that, it's easy to let Margo’s story lull him into calmer waters, amusement and the familiar fondness for her spreading around his ribcage.

*

Waking up the next day to find Eliot and Julia making small talk in the kitchen is the last thing Quentin had expected to see and yet– worryingly, perhaps, it strikes him as a pleasant and warm scene, something he wouldn't mind seeing again, and a lot less strange than it should've been.

Because the truth is, yes, Quentin had noticed Eliot is a very handsome man, it would be impossible not to, really, with how bright he burns– a star in constant combustion, shedding warmth and light anywhere he goes.

That being said, Quentin is well aware it's been ages since he went on a date

, since he actually _wanted_ to go on a date, and Eliot looks like he belongs in royal palaces or at the very least the Ritz.

Quentin knows better than entertain this idea, he truly does, but now that he’s aware of it, there’s no getting rid of it. And if Eliot had been just a pretty face, perhaps it would’ve been easier to ignore, but instead, he’s seen the man telling Teddy stories about his travels without any annoyance at his constant questions, seen him tangled in Christmas lights because he’s never decorated a tree before, seen him smile genuinely at his babbling like he finds it endearing.

It’s hard not to be interested, not to want to know more about Eliot when he’s there, backlit by the sunset and the falling snow, and each day reveals something different, a puzzle piece that Quentin is never quite sure how to fit in the bigger picture. 

Today Eliot’s retreated to the living room couch to work on his article and Quentin’s taken refuge in the backyard, indulging Teddy’s pleading to make snowmen and snow angels. It’s easier this way.

Not that his hiding has escaped Julia, of course not. She joins them only after giving Quentin a _look,_ one that says they’ll be talking about this at some point, and he knows what she’ll say, and he knows she knows what _he_ will say, so really– what’s the point, Jules?

Infatuations never go anywhere.

Much later, after the day’s bled into nightfall, and Julia’s somehow convinced them all to go ice skating, Quentin has to keep chanting that to himself.

_Infatuations never go anywhere,_ he repeats firmly on his head as he watches Eliot wobble into the ring. He’s clinging to the railing, legs unsteady and eyes wide, looking every bit of a baby deer learning how to walk, and before Quentin notices, he’s moving to help him. 

“This was a terrible idea,” Eliot informs him, sounding almost terrified, “don’t laugh– I’m from _Indiana._ We don’t have this, this– _health hazard!”_

Quentin can’t help smiling at yet another tidbit of information. “I thought you were from New York.”

Something flickers across Eliot’s face, not quite sadness, but somewhere just shy of bitterness, and Quentin moves closer, a sudden urge to coax back the amused look from before. “Alright,” Eliot says, glancing around as if checking for eavesdroppers and leans in, fingers still wrapped white-knuckled around the metal railings, “I’m going to tell you something only two other people know. Will you keep my secret, Quentin Coldwater?”

There's a pinched expression on his face that makes Quentin nod wordlessly.

“Ready? Here it goes: I’m from a dusty soy farm in Indiana– world-shattering, I know.”

Quentin takes this piece and holds it to the light, placing it along with Eliot’s familiarity with the trees. It fits oddly well, even as he tries to imagine Eliot with his designer clothes in a soy field, under the midday sun. 

This definitely raises many questions, and Quentin badly wants to ask them all, but Eliot's stiff posture doesn't prelude very good memories and Christmas is hardly the time to be sad. Instead, he holds out his hand with a smile, “okay, ready to skate, cowboy?”

The teasing seems to take Eliot by surprise, and he blinks, looking at Quentin’s outstretched hand before glancing up again. He smiles. “Lead the way.”

Apparently that was the right thing to say and honestly, Quentin isn’t used to saying the right thing at the right time; he’s even less used to getting this comfortable around someone this soon.

Eliot takes his hand.

While Teddy and Julia zoom past them, Quentin slowly pulls Eliot further into the ring, lets Eliot grips his arms to steady himself, and this brings them very close– close enough to watch the delighted grin dawning on his lips, to count his lashes, to be warm surrounded by ice.

“See,” Quentin laughs after another almost-fall, “you’re getting the hang of this.”

Eliot shoots him a dirty look. “You’re just enjoying watching me make a fool out of myself.”

“Maybe a little,” he admits, snickering at the playful shove at his shoulders, “but I’m serious, look. Try on your own.”

Hesitantly, Eliot eases his grip, pushing to take a step without Quentin as his training wheels, and looks up with a proud smile when he doesn’t immediately fall. “I did it!”

Somewhere far at their left, Teddy whoops his encouragements.

“Thank you, thank you,” Eliot bows, mockingly serious, and promptly slips up halfway through with a surprised _oh, shit!_

“Shit,” Quentin hurries to hover at his side, checking for any broken bones, “are you alright?”

A groan of pain. “Peachy,” then, he _snorts,_ startling a laugh out of Quentin, and soon enough they’re both snickering as he helps Eliot to his feet. “Fuck, I think that’s enough ice skating for me.”

“Come on,” Quentin nods at the small cafe tucked in the back, “how about a coffee to warm you up?”

“Yes, _please,”_ Eliot latches once more on the railings to pull himself out of the ice with a relieved sigh, only to stop short. “Oh. Hello– Alice, right?”

It is indeed Alice and Quentin feels terrible for finding himself disappointed at her presence. Not that he doesn’t like to see her, he does, it’s just that with her there, the air seems to have changed like a bubble bursting. Still, he forces himself to smile politely. “Alice, hey.”

“Hi,” she grins back, adjusting her glasses, “so you did find something fun to do.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “Julia did, actually, she and Teddy are having the time of their lives over there.”

Alice snorts. “Charlie found them already,” she points at the small figure skating around them before turning back to Quentin, “actually, I’m glad I ran into you, I was just about to call you.” 

“Oh,” he blinks, suppressing a frown at Eliot’s strange quietness, “did something happen?”

“No, no, it’s just,” she bites her lip, huffs, “Charlie wants to see the Nutcracker tomorrow and I was wondering if you, and Teddy, of course, would like to join us?”

“Sure,” Quentin agrees without hesitation. There’s no need to think about it, Teddy would love both the play and the opportunity to hang out with Charlie, so _of course_ Quentin would go.

She’s visibly relieved at his answer and he smiles sympathetically, having only a kid for company all week must be a little tiring even if it’s your kid. He’d be craving some adult interaction too if he were in her shoes. 

Thankfully, Alice leaves soon after sorting out the logistics of their meet up, just in time for Eliot to finish changing back into his own shoes. He stands up, dusting himself off, and smirks, “so, should I tell Julia not to wait up for you tomorrow?”

Quentin frowns. “Not really? It shouldn’t take too long, it’s for children, after all, so we should be back before ten. Why?”

“Oh, Q,” he says with a shake of his head and Quentin’s heart decidedly doesn’t stutter at his nickname in Eliot’s voice, “because you’ve got yourself a hot date just now.”

His thoughts screech to a halt. “No, I did _not.”_

“She was _clearly_ asking you out.”

“She was _not,”_ he begins feeling the first twinges of panic stab him in the chest– _what if she was?_ “And anyway, it’s been– since Arielle,” he swallows down the familiar ache at her name, “since she passed away, I haven’t been on a real date, not really.”

Eliot’s eyes are soft and so very warm when he glances up. “I’m sorry,” he rests a hand on Quentin’s shoulder and Quentin leans into the touch, breath hitching up when Eliot squeezes, hand sliding south as if to land over his heart, and feels oddly cold when he thinks better of it and lets go. “I won’t press, I didn’t know.”

“It’s alright,” Quentin clears his throat, looks away, “I think– that was over four years ago,” despite the needling pain, he offers a small smile, “and Julia’s right. She would’ve wanted me to move on.” 

“But what about you,” he asks, “do _you_ want to move on?”

This feels strangely important.

With Eliot here, looking beautiful under the artificial lights, Quentin finds it easy to answer. “Yeah, I do.”

Then, Eliot steps back, glances at something over his shoulder. “Good luck on your date with Alice, then.”

_Infatuations never go anywhere,_ Quentin repeats in his head and maybe if he says it enough times, he’ll believe it.

*

Morning comes with gentle snow, terribly cheesy Christmas music drifting from the kitchen, and a phone call from Fogg to let him know the bridge has finally cleared enough for safe travel.

In summary, New York is waiting for him.

His beautiful apartment with a real bed and no one to share it with. No Quentin and no Teddy. 

He shakes his head, hopes it’ll shake these thoughts off too. It’s been an awfully short time to be entertaining this kind of idea. Too short, actually. Eliot should know better than to go around getting attached to goofy, cute men and his adorable offspring.

“What?” said offspring cries when he breaks the news over breakfast, “but you can’t! Eliot! You _have_ to spend Christmas with us!”

“I’m sorry, kid,” Eliot says, genuinely regretful, “but I’m already imposing enough as it is–”

“No! Dad,” Teddy whirls around on his father, turning up the good ole puppy eyes, “tell him he has to stay! _Please!”_

Quentin looks awkwardly between them, scratching at his neck. “I mean,” he glances up at Eliot, eyes full of– _something,_ “it’s really no trouble, if you want to stay– we’d love to have you here.”

“What he said,” Julia pipes in from behind her mug, looking terribly amused.

It's not often Eliot finds himself speechless, but right now, under the warm gaze of this family, he's stunned by their kindness. True, in his travels he found many people willing to talk to him, invite him into their culture, but none to this extent. But then again, it shouldn’t be surprising, after all, he’s known for a while there’s no one like Quentin.

And hit with the full extent of Teddy’s puppy eyes, who’s Eliot to say no?

“I think,” he clears his throat, “I wouldn’t mind staying for another day or two.”

Teddy squeals in delight and from across the table, he meets Quentin’s eyes and smiles.

“Well, now that _that’s_ settled,” Julia raises her voice slightly, still looking entirely too amused, “what are our plans for today?”

“I don’t know?” Quentin makes a face, “I’m all out of ideas, don’t look at me!”

A passing thought takes root. “I saw a flyer yesterday,” Eliot says, “something about a Gingerbread house contest?”

“Oh my god,” Teddy breathes, eyes shining undoubtedly imagining wonderful candy architectures already, “can we do it? It would be _so awesome!”_

Quentin ruffles his hair. “I don’t see why not.”

A Gingerbread House. Eliot has never expected to be involved in the making of one, but now that he _is_ , he has plenty of ideas.

They're not always good, or even realistic, but the more outrageously ridiculous they are, the brighter Quentin smiles and the louder Teddy laughs, and Eliot wilfully ignores the pleased curl of warmth in his chest. To be examined later, he decides.

The afternoon is then dedicated to buying impossible amounts of ingredients to make the impossible project and getting a head start on the gingerbread. They'll need lots and lots of those.

And Eliot wouldn't admit but he loves how the air smells of cinnamon and sugar, loves the stupid Christmas music drifting from the old radio in the kitchen counter.

His fondness surges so unbridled in his ribcage, he fears he might overflow with it, and Eliot is moving before he can think better of it. He offers a hand that Quentin seemingly accepts it more out of curiosity than anything and Eliot pulls him into a waltz in the middle of the kitchen, swaying to _I’ll be home for Christmas_ softly echoing in the room.

His eyes stay closed for a minute, enjoying the proximity, but Eliot soon opens them; he wants to see Quentin’s embarrassed laughter, flushed and so fiercely beautiful, and somewhere near, Teddy is laughing too, and there's the telltale _click_ of a camera. 

Doris Day sings in the radio and Eliot’s heart should not be making such a fuss on his chest, but in all his travels, all over the world, nowhere, not even Paris, not even Rome or Prague, he found something quite like this.

The music dies down. They linger. It’d be very easy– 

_“Quentin Coldwater,”_ comes Julia’s voice from somewhere in the living room and she doesn’t even sound particularly loud, just mildly exasperated, but it springs them apart, _“if you don’t go change now, you’ll be late!”_

Except, _right,_ Quentin’s got a date tonight. Eliot takes another step back, glancing down at the spilled sugar on the table. Faintly, he hears Quentin scramble, stumbling into one of the chairs as he shuffles Teddy out of the kitchen with him. Despite himself, Eliot looks up, just in time to meet Quentin’s eyes across the room. He smiles a blank smile.

It’s not until he hears the front door closing that Eliot manages to breathe quite right again.

Of course, that’s also when Julia rounds on him to help her make a sad excuse for mac and cheese for dinner. It could’ve been worse, honestly, Julia makes for a decent company, all in all, even if she’s very nosy.

“So, you’ve been all over the world, uh?”

“Only a third, I’d say,” he answers easily.

“It must be fun,” she says a little wistfully, “always somewhere new.”

It is. Or, well, it used to be. Lately, it’s been mostly tiring. “Quite, but I’ve actually been thinking lately of sticking around for a bit in New York, work on my book.”

Julia’s eyebrows rise but she softens. “Yeah? Thinking of settling down?”

There’s a bit of humor in her voice and Eliot can’t help snorting at the thought, considering his fairly recent break-up. “As much as it surprises me,” he says, _“yes.”_

“You don’t think you’ll get bored?”

Her question is very loaded, he thinks. It almost feels like an interrogation. But it’s a fair one, he supposes, considering his life right now and what she knows about him. In fact, it’s something he’s asked himself when toying with the idea of a book, and if she asked him about a month ago, he’d probably say _yes._

Now, it feels less daunting. Less lonely. “No, I don't think so.”

She must see the painful honesty in his words, because Julia nods, pleased. “That's cool. If you do stay in New York, you should come visit.”

Eliot grins. “I’d like that. I think Teddy's the only audience that hasn't grown tired of my stories yet.”

“Quentin would like that too,” sh continues, suspiciously nonchalant, “you know, he doesn't usually warm up to people this quickly.”

“Yes, well,” he clears his throat, pretends this doesn't make something flutter behind his ribs, “I’ve already thoroughly embarrassed myself when we met, that certainly helped.”

Julia laughs, choking on her food. “Oh yeah, I heard all about that. Black belt in Krav Maga?”

“Look, I thought I was being robbed at the time–” he scowls, glaring from behind his wine, before sighing, glancing down at his plate, “but for what it's worth, I don't usually barge into people's holidays either.”

What he means is that he doesn't usually tell people about Indiana at all. Certainly not after less than a week of knowing each other. Margo knows, of course, but Margo had been there while Eliot built himself up into who he wanted to be. But Quentin had asked with nothing but curiosity and Eliot had surprised himself with how much he wanted to be known. 

Anything Quentin wants to know, Eliot would tell.

It’s terrifying. 

In any case, the conversation flows easier after that and Eliot feels like he just passed a test, and soon enough, Quentin's car is parking on the driveway.

It should probably be some sort of crime to look this good, honestly. “So,” Eliot says, voice forcefully cheery as Teddy zooms past him to tackle Julia in her bedroom. “How was the date?”

Quentin grows flustered, unwrapping his scarf from his neck before finally answering. “It was, uh, it was okay.”

“Just okay?” 

“Yeah, the play was nice,” he half shrugs, scratching the back of his neck, “and oh– Alice invited all of us to her party tomorrow.”

Clearly the date went better than okay if there's already a second date scheduled. Eliot tries not to feel so despondent. “How kind of her,” he says dryly, “but I think I’ll have to pass.”

“Why?” Quentin blurts out, looking immediately embarrassed from having done so, then amends, “I mean, I don't want you to feel obligated to go, I just thought a party would be something you’d enjoy and I did ask her, so really, Alice means the invitation, and, hm. Yeah.”

“You asked her,” his voice comes out strangled.

“Yeah,” he shifts uneasily, “just to be sure.”

“Because you thought I’d like to go.”

“Yes?”

The situation is slipping out of control and Eliot feels himself verging on hysteria, a strong urge to bury his head in his hands. 

Truly, Quentin will be the death of him.

“Alright,” he hears himself saying, words tumbling out without his permission.

“Really?” Quentin perks up, smiles, “thank god, I hate going to these things alone and Julia always ends up getting sidetracked.”

Eliot refuses to point out the obvious and remind him Alice will be there too, lets Quentin look at him as if Eliot is not being terribly selfish.

*

The next day is full of sugar and ginger and cinnamon as they try to keep their little gingerbread house upright. 

Icing is so far the trickiest part.

They had to redo it a few times, and _yes,_ maybe Julia will be smelling of butter for at least another day, but hey– they've got the bones of the structure and half a roof by sunset!

None of them bother with lunch, what, considering the amount of gingerbread they each snuck throughout the day. Quentin sees Eliot and Teddy tag-teaming to distract Julia in order to get to the decorated ones, but pretends not to. Actually, he might have slipped one or two as well while they were at it. It’s not like they’re lacking construction material anyway, with the amount of dough they made, if they don’t win this contest, they’ll be eating gingerbread until next Christmas.

But of course, Quentin had to go and promise Alice he’d be at her party because she had asked him and he’s bad at saying no and it sounded like the kind of thing Eliot would enjoy, and maybe some tiny part of Quentin thought it’d be nice to go together.

Stupid, _stupid_ idea. Whyever did he think giving Eliot a reason to wear a blazer was a good idea? Quentin’s sanity is at risk here, really, no one should look _that_ good in dress pants.

And Quentin knows, he _knows,_ he should be talking with Alice after she so gracefully extended her invitation, but Julia disappears two minutes into the party and Teddy is off with Charlie as soon as he’s out of the car, so if they were to truly think about it, it’d be _rude_ not to stick by Eliot’s side and leave him to fend for himself in a stranger’s house.

It has nothing to do with the mistletoe in the doorways or the way the light dances in his eyes. He’s just being a good friend, that’s all, just like his presence here in the first place is only to give Teddy the chance to play with Charlie. Unsurprisingly, Quentin is very good at finding himself excuses.

He does, however, forces himself to mingle for a bit, lets Alice show him around and get him a drink, awkwardly nodding at the people he’s introduced to. 

It’s only an hour later that he manages to slip away from the crowd, leaning at the bar for some breathing room.

_“Nobody puts Baby in the corner,”_ Eliot’s voice comes from his left and Quentin startles, whirling around to find him with a drink in his hand and a small smile. “What? You were looking bored out of your mind, Q.”

“So you decided to quote _Dirty Dancing?”_

“Made you smile, didn’t it?”

He huffs a puff of laughter, surprised to find– “yeah, it did,” he glances at his own drink, a glass of wine he’s been nursing for too long now, “and I was. Bored, I mean.”

Chuckling Eliot leans closer, “would it be weird if I said I’d rather be finishing that gingerbread house?”

Once again, affection bubbles and Quentin is helpless to the rising tides of it all. “No, I don’t think so,” he says, “because honestly? _Same.”_

“Oh, thank _god,”_ Eliot crows, delighted, “I’ve been thinking all night about this and I think I’ve got it– we should make the little windows out of cinnamon.”

“To make it look like real wood?” Quentin grins, snickers bursting at his seams.

“And we should add more trees in the little garden–”

“With little candy lamp posts–”

They look at each for a moment, absolutely too excited about this and entirely unapologetic. Then–

“I’ll go get Julia–”

“Right, I’ll find Teddy–”

It's thankfully easy to convince Teddy to say goodbye with the promise of working on their project and in less than fifteen minutes they're all in the car while Quentin smooths things out with Alice.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t stay longer,” he says, hoping to come off sheepish, and Alice smiles, “thank you for inviting us.”

“It’s alright,” she says, “thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Yeah, it’s not really my thing,” he glances behind his shoulder at the car, at Eliot watching in the backseat, and when he turns back, Alice had followed his gaze.

“I see,” she clears her throat, grin slipping for barely a second, so quick he’s sure he must have imagined the frown, “we’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Quentin goes for the hug, unsure what the etiquette here was, and raises his hand in an awkward wave before hurrying to the car. “Okay,” he drums his fingers on the wheel once, “everyone’s ready to go?”

Cheerful agreements chirp all around and he starts the car, pulling out of the driveway and into the road without looking back. The Quinns’ cabin is left behind in the slow trickle of dripping snow, his world shrinking to the warm atmosphere around them, a bubble of happiness he hadn’t felt in a long time. The kind of miracle that could never come to pass in any other season– had it not been Christmas, he doubts things would have fallen into place so easily.

As it is, _too good to be true_ is replaced with _hope,_ spreading across his chest like wildfire.

Even as they pile out of the car and into the kitchen, they carry this feeling inside, filling out the room with laughter as Julia digs out bags of candy from the pantry and Teddy climbs up a stool to reach the gingerbread roof and Eliot spends half an hour trying to make the cinnamon windows look impossibly perfect, and Quentin watches, and the snow falls outside, and the radio is still playing Christmas songs in a loop. It all feels _right_ as if this is exactly where they were all supposed to be and it doesn’t feel like betraying Arielle when Quentin knows she would’ve loved Eliot, would’ve wanted him to find this kind sort of happy ending.

The hour grows late but they stay in the cabin’s little kitchen, surrounded by sugar and cinnamon and ginger and _love._

*

Not to brag, but Eliot is quite sure this is the best gingerbread house in the whole motherfucking universe. Sure, the roof is leaning a little and one of the walls could have been glued a little better, yes, but this all works to give it _character._

It’s a fine ass piece of real state and the judges would have to be blind not to see it.

They had stayed up after midnight finishing it yesterday, huddled up in the kitchen in the most delightful controlled chaos Eliot’s ever seen– if it wasn’t in Teddy’s list, it should’ve been.

Not to be jealous because jealousy is an ugly emotion and it wouldn’t be his place anyway, but he sees Alice with her tiny brother in a stand a few rows away, and something soothes in his heart when all she does is wave from a distance. Leaving her party early had been a relief, even if it’s selfish of him to think so; he should, after all, be happy for Quentin. 

And yet.

And yet, his stomach still twists painfully at the idea of the two of them together. He thinks of the no-nonsense attitude he’s seen so far in Alice, and can’t help but wonder how that would work with Quentin’s goofiness. Would Alice stay up with him making stupid jokes about candy while cleaning up their disaster of a kitchen? Would she laugh at his bad jokes? Would she know to sing off tune to songs on the radio because it makes him laugh?

_God,_ Eliot hopes so. If this is how it ends, then at least Quentin should get the whole fairytale deal. Let Eliot have the real world with shitty people and an irrational fear of almonds, it’s just par for the course.

A round of applause startles him out of his impromptu wallowing party. He’d call it self-pity, but, well. Not nearly enough alcohol for that. 

Or time, for that matter. As it turns out, the applause is for them and the theater kid in him preens under the spotlight. A gold medal is placed carefully in front of their little house and Eliot steps away, grinning proudly while the photographer approaches.

Until–

Teddy calls him, waving him over excitedly, “Eliot! You have to be here too!”

“No, I couldn't possibly–”

“Come on,” Quentin grins, nodding at the place between him and Julia, “please, El?”

Eliot smiles. Between a heartbeat and the next, it hits him that he could never refuse Quentin when he asks like that.

It’s terrifying how _not_ terrifying it is.

He joins them in the stand.

They take the picture, the family picture. Eliot wishes that didn't make him feel as warm as it does.

His last family picture is still hanging in the peeling walls of a farmhouse in Indiana. Or it should be, at least. He had made a point of turning it around before leaving.

And if they were counting only the pictures with the people _he_ counts as family, then it'd be the small Polaroid of him and Margo in the Opening Party for her magazine he keeps in his wallet. It's very wrinkled by now but it still better than any of the glossy portraits in his apartment. It's the one he carried with him through all the countries he visited.

It's the one that stayed.

“You alright?” Julia says quietly, smile lingering. At their side, Quentin is spinning Teddy in the air, laughing.

Somehow, the truth slips out. “I've never been better.”

She nods, squeezing his hand for a second. “Then let's go join the party.”

It's frighteningly easy to smile at Julia and accept her invitation, to fold himself in the space left in their little family. 

So easy, it stays with him even hours later, a lingering warmth that stubbornly clings to his bones in the cold of the night. The snow is prettier tonight, he thinks, softer, kinder, and the stars are bright spots of light in the dark, tracing constellations with their fire. Eliot has never been one for astronomy, but something about the clear sky, starlit like New York never is, makes him nostalgic, wistful.

His heart aches.

Eliot pulls the patchwork quilt tighter over his shoulder.

“Can’t sleep?” Quentin’s voice has become unmistakably familiar over the past week, and Eliot feels his lips twitching into an almost smile before the man even leans against the porch railing beside him. “Bit, uh, cold to be out here, isn’t it?”

Eliot hums agreeably. “It’s nice,” he looks back up, “hell of a lot more stars than I’m used to.”

“Not even in your travels?”

Greece had been a stunning place at night to stargaze. So had been Florence and the French countryside. And yet, Eliot’s eyes stray fleetingly at Quentin before he forces himself to stay safely fixed overhead. “No, nothing quite like this.”

A pause. “And uh,” Quentin clears his throat, “how is your article going?”

Now, he grins. “Good, good. I’m almost finished, actually.”

Quentin grins in answer.

“It’s been a while since it flowed like this,” he finds himself adding, “I think the problem now is sticking to under the word limit.”

“I’m sure it’s going to turn out great,” Quentin positively _beams_ with so much confidence and honesty, it itches at Eliot’s skin, “and where are you off next?”

There’s something tinging Quentin’s words, something blue, but Eliot can’t dissect it right now, so he just shrugs. “I don’t know. I think– I’ve been thinking of settling down, working on my book, you know?”

“Really?” Quentin blinks, “I’ve actually been thinking the opposite– now that Teddy’s a bit older, it might be good for him to see new places, some uh, new experiences.”

“Yeah, I think he’d enjoy Spain,” Eliot is still grinning, he’s not sure why, but the idea of traveling feels less exhausting with the prospect of showing Quentin and Teddy the streets of Barcelona. “Italy, too.”

“Disneyland had been my first thought, but I’ll keep that in mind,” Quentin snickers, all good humor and genuine emotion.

And it’s late at night and Eliot has dropped all pretenses now, helpless against this odd gravity that pulls him ever towards Quentin, his gaze finding him already looking back. It sets fireworks under his skin, and it’s been less than a week but Eliot is so full of adoration, he doesn’t know what to do with it– he wants to open his ribcage like wide french doors to the blooming garden these feelings have made of his heart and invite Quentin in, ask him to make himself a home there. 

Instead, he takes an unsteady breath as Quentin starts to lean in, not daring to believe this is truly happening, even as Quentin’s breath fans over his lips, even as he closes his eyes in anticipation, even as Quentin's hands close over fistfuls of the quilt, even as– 

_“Dad, I’m thirsty!”_

Teddy’s voice cuts through with frightening clarity and they startle, not quite springing apart, but stepping back nonetheless. Whatever spell had been hovering in the air just now is broken.

Despite himself, despite knowing better, Eliot is terribly disappointed. “You should–”

“Right,” Quentin says awkwardly, eyes glancing at the house, “I’m going–,” he pauses, sighs, and adds with a wistful smile, “good night, El.”

“Good night, Q,” Eliot watches him go and resigns himself to finishing his article as a distraction to the undoubtedly many dreams of kissing Quentin under several skies.

*

Quentin is overflowing.

Last night had seen him dash past the point of no return, leaving behind any doubt this thing with Eliot is bigger than it has any right to be. He’s never been one for making the first move, for taking the first step without the certainty of solid ground. But yesterday, with Eliot looking at him, smiling with the stars reflected in his eyes, it had seemed very easy to lean in.

And– Eliot had leaned too, right?

Quentin thinks so.

At least, he likes to think so. He’s like, seventy percent sure. Maybe sixty-five– but the point is.  _ Crush  _ is a very understated word for this.

Especially when the day goes by quietly without any lingering awkwardness. Yes, they had almost kissed last night, yes, Quentin is halfway in love with him, but it’s just Eliot. Eliot, who did terrible Karate moves while yelling about Krav Maga when they first met. Eliot, who let them have the cabin even though he had already paid for it too. Eliot, who didn’t know what Christmas was, not really, but sounds like he’s a fast learner. 

Eliot, who had stayed up building a gingerbread house with them with nothing but fond happiness in his eyes.

Any awkwardness has been left behind long ago.

All there is now are stuttering heartbeats and insistent butterflies as Quentin teaches him how to make smores and the fire casts flickering shadows in his eyes, makes them dance warmly in the half-light. 

_ Tonight,  _ he thinks, and stands up to pick up more marshmallows with wobbly knees and a giddy sort of breathlessness,  _ tonight.  _

“Quentin,” it’s Alice, sounding not at all surprised to see him and absolutely resigned at the same time. She looks very beautiful in her dark blue coat and light green scarf, and Quentin would tell her if she didn’t look quite so grim. “Can we talk?”

Well,  _ that  _ never led to anything good. Still, “yeah, sure. I was just– sure. What’s going on?”

“You’re one of the best people I know,” she says, fiddling with her glasses, “and one of my closest friends, you know that, right?”

“Of course–”

She hadn’t been looking for a reply, though, continuing with little more than a small smile in acknowledgment. “You’re very important to me, is what I mean,” she sighs, “and I hope we can still be friends after this.”

Frowning, he steps closer. “Alice–”

“No, just– let me finish, please,” she shakes her head, taking a deep breath as if to steady herself, “I like you, Quentin, and these past few days have been fun, but– I have no interest in chasing after someone who’s clearly in love with someone else.”

It’s involuntary, really, Quentin can’t help glancing at Eliot, feeling his chest tighten and his heart trip in its pace, before he can drag his focus back to Alice. “I–,” he exhales, runs a hand through his hair, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

“I know,” Alice smiles and it looks a little less forced, “I’m not– I don’t think I’m angry. Just disappointed. But I really do hope we can still be friends.”

A couple of years ago Quentin thinks he would have loved to go on a date with Alice. Or maybe the idea of it, at least. He’s not sure he would’ve been ready to move on, then. Timing has never been in their favor, it seems. 

As it is now, though, he feels only a vague relief of having all this in the open, laying all the cards on the table so they can move past it. “I would like that,” he smiles, hesitantly opening his arms in an invitation she takes equally hesitant. Neither of them has ever been good at initiating these things, but it’s nice. This is what friends are here for, isn’t it?  _ Trying.  _ Into her hair, he adds quietly, “I would very much like to be your friend, Alice.”

She walks away with a firm nod and a wistful smile, disappearing in the crowd, never looking back. It’s not like her, he thinks, to look over her shoulders.

Not even a second later, Julia finds him. “What was that all about?”

_ “Jesus,”  _ he hisses, more or less startled, “were you eavesdropping?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if I were, would I?”

“Maybe, I don’t know,” he huffs, steering them to the tables to resume his search for marshmallows, “anyway, it was just Alice.”

“Yes,” Julia says slowly, making an impatient noise, “I could see that. What did she want?”

“Turn me down? I think?” Quentin scrunches his nose, wracking his brain for better words to relay their conversations. Somehow, it feels strangely wrong to tell even Julia everything, like he would be betraying Alice’s trust– she’s always been such a private person, after all. 

“You don’t know?”

For some reason, Julia sounds upset with him. No, not upset. Irritated, he decides, or somewhere between the two. “I think there wasn’t enough to turn down, is all,” he shrugs sheepishly, “we’re not– no more maybe-dates if that’s what you’re fishing for.”

That seems to appease her, and she regards him thoughtfully. “I thought you had a crush?”

“So did I,” he answers truthfully, thinking back on the summers he spent flustered stumbling into conversations while Charlie and Teddy played in the backyard. “But something just doesn’t click, not really, you know? We’re better off as friends.”

Julia nods, grin turning mischievous. “And that wouldn’t have anything to do with one posh journalist staying in our couch, would it?”

Blood rushes to his face and Quentin feels his cheeks heating up like he’s an awestruck teenager again. “Maybe. Is it that obvious?”

“Yup,” she confirms, completely unashamed in her meddling, “I know you, Q, and for what is worth it, I think he’s hopelessly gone on you too.”

Hope must really be the thing with feathers because Quentin feels his heart flutter and dozens stubborn butterflies flap their wings.

_ Tonight. _

* 

The phone rings and rings and rings and  _ rings– _

“I’m flying back,” is the first thing he says as soon as the line connects, “I’m getting the first flight tomorrow back to New York.”

“The fuck, El,” Margo sounds like she’s frowning and the background noises steadily fades into a distant murmur, “what happened?”

“I,” Eliot hesitates, swallowing thickly. There’s no reason for him to be this upset, honestly, it’s  _ ridiculous.  _ And yet, here he is, feeling terribly homesick in face of Margo’s familiar voice, and he wishes fiercely there wasn’t half a country between them– curling up with her on the couch and enough alcohol to forget the past hour would be heavenly. “I heard– I did something stupid, Bambi.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of her breathing, calming and steadying. Then, “is this about your nerd?”

“Yes,” he sighs, leaning against a tree.

“You caught feelings,” she guesses easily and he’s glad to find no judgment in her tone, “he  _ is  _ your type, I suppose.”

Watching the snow falling unhurriedly from the clouded sky, Eliot bites back another sigh, raging against the helplessness that’s setting in. It’s not Quentin’s fault and it’s not even Alice’s fault, it’s barely  _ Eliot’s  _ fault for getting attached to someone he knew he wouldn’t get to keep. If he’s hurting right now, it’s because he allowed himself to  _ hope  _ and grow  _ expectations  _ like weeds in a garden. “Indeed. And now he’s off, riding into the sunset with his pretty girlfriend.”

“Oh, El,” Margo breathes, uncharacteristically gentle; he must be sounding downright pathetic, then. “I’m so sorry. I though– in your email last night, you said things were good?”

“I know, it had been– we had almost kissed,” he confesses, refusing to let his mind wander back to the breath-stealing moment when he thought  _ this is it, this is how happy endings go.  _

“Well, what the fuck changed between then and now?”

“I don’t– I mean,” he flounders, searching for a way to explain he’s not a reliable narrator, especially not when he’s still high on the hopeful excitement of almost-kisses, “maybe I read the whole thing wrong. I heard him talking with his friend– he think we’re better off as friends.”

The image of Quentin gathering Alice into a hug and whispering into her hair is branded in his eyelids, there to remind him of what a grand ol’ fool he was, and the bits and pieces of his conversation with Julia always echoes in the background. 

A  _ fool,  _ that’s what Eliot is.

“I’m sorry, El,” Margo repeats, and her voice catches, breaking guiltily, “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just made it all fucking worse,  _ shit.” _

Cold water washes over him, colder than the all the winter around him, and Eliot pauses to calmly ask, “what does that mean?”

Margo sighs. “I might have assigned you this story on purpose,” she starts carefully, hurrying to add, “but only because I was worried about you! And not just because of Mike, I never gave many fucks about Mike, to be honest. I’ve been worried even before him, really, you weren’t the same anymore.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grits his teeth, recoiling at the idea of being so utterly transparent, even to Margo. 

“Yes, you do,” she dismisses his sputtering, back to her direct no-nonsense self, “your articles– you were beginning to sound like a goddamn anthropologist, El. I know you like to seem all aloof and shit, but I know you and that wasn’t you. So I thought some time off would do you some good.”

He stays quiet, processing.

“And to be fair, I’ve read what you sent me,” she says softly, “and that was your best one yet.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he tells her, hands gripping his cell phone until it hurts to breathe. 

“Eliot, I– I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry it ended like this, but I won’t apologize for worrying about you.”

_ God,  _ sometimes Eliot wishes he could stay mad with Margo for longer than a second. “Just talk to me next time, okay?”

“Okay,” Margo agrees, “are you going to be okay?”

“Sure,” he shrugs even though she can’t see him, “I always am.”

“Reassuring,” she says dryly, “I’ll send Fen to pick you up at the airport tomorrow, just text me your flight. I love you, asshole.”

Despite  _ everything,  _ Eliot smiles. “I love you too, Bambi.”

The world is still very much colorless and off tilt, but he thinks–  _ in time. _

In time, this too will pass.

Eliot will go back to the cabin and pack his things, then, he’s going to pop an  _ Ambien _ and sleep until it’s morning again and he can get his shit together long enough to bullshit his way out of this.

It won’t be too difficult, he thinks, and it’ll save everyone some too-awkward conversations, especially this close to Christmas. 

And predictably, the hardest part is saying goodbye to Teddy, who has no idea how complicated things can turn for grown-ups. He looks at Eliot with eyes so sad and confused, Eliot nearly says  _ to hell with it,  _ it’s only the knowledge that this is for the best that keeps him firm on his decision.

“Work emergencies,” he says, finding it easy to pass a wounded grimace as an apologetic expression, “you know how it is. I’m afraid there’s no way around it.”

“But,” Quentin frowns, looking just as disappointed, and Eliot wants to tell him that while staying friends is something he would like, now is just not the time. It’s too soon. Maybe later, when his heart is no longer liable to beat out of his chest at the slightest sight of Quentin’s smile. Now, he can’t take this stubborn goodness, this kind concern. “On Christmas Eve?”

“And it looks like it’s going to snow,” Julia points out with a worried glance out the window, eyeing the dark clouds gathering on the horizon, “I don’t think it’s safe to travel. Maybe we should at least call Fogg–”

The idea of enduring another day cooped up in this cabin with Quentin and Teddy and even Julia strikes him like lightning, panicking and painful. “No need,” he shakes his head, careful to keep his voice steady, “I’ll be in a plane before the storm hits.”

She still looks worried, biting her lips, and Eliot offers a placating smile, hopefully, enough to get him out the door with no further questions.

“If there’s really no other way,” Quentin trails off, awkwardly stuffing his hands in his coat’s pocket.

“There isn’t,” Eliot says firmly, convincing himself more than anything. A deep breath, “thank you for allowing me to stay this long, I had a truly incredible time, and I don’t think I could’ve written that article without your help.”

It doesn’t cover even a quarter of what he wants to say, not by a mile, but Eliot has a terrible habit of hiding his hand close to his chest. Here, he knows, Margo would snap he should take Quentin aside, lay his cards on the table, but– when has Eliot ever done that?

So he settles for doing the sensible thing. He smiles politely and accepts Teddy’s hug, exchanges teasing goodbyes with Julia, and tries very hard not to look too much at Quentin, scared how easy it would be for the man to change his mind.

One word from Quentin and Eliot’d do just about anything.

_ “Eliot, wait–” _

Eliot pauses midway into opening his car door. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” Quentin blurts out, running a hand through his hair, “I don’t– if I did– I’m not very good with people, but if I did something wrong–”

_ Oh, Jesus.  _ “No, of course not,” he hurries out frantically because Quentin hasn’t done anything at all, his fingers twitching at his side, itching to reach and smooth the rumpled strands on Quentin’s hair. “Margo needs me in New York, is all.”

That doesn’t seem to reassure him much, Quentin still looks unconvinced with his excuse. “I just ask because Teddy would like if you stayed.”

_ Just Teddy?  _ Eliot wants to ask, swallows the words before he gets an answer he won’t like. “I’m sorry,” he shakes his head, surprised at how true this is, “I truly am.”

Quentin studies him, eyes heavy and–  _ something.  _ He must know, then, why Eliot is doing this, why he can’t stay. Why it’s for the best. “Alright, I, uh, I understand,” he clears his throat, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

“I hope so,” Eliot offers a small smile and tries to think of a future where he can orbit around Quentin’s sun without getting burned.

It’s almost comforting.

Needless to say, the drive back is a miserable waste of his day. Julia had been right, there’s a snowstorm on the way, a bad one if the harsh winds raging against his car are any indication. But then again, it only starts snowing properly in the afternoon, a trickle of white that muddies the road and then grows bothersome enough that he pulls into the first gas station he finds, eager to escape the chill that seems to cling stubbornly to his bones. He’s half-heartedly checking the shelves, considering the merits of calling Margo once more, or maybe Fen, let her know his flight might be delayed, when his phone pings, startling loud in the empty store even with grainy music playing in the background.

It’s an email. 

From  _ Teddy.  _

Well, from  _ Quentin  _ actually, but in the only annexed file is Teddy’s video montage titled  _ Best Christmas Ever. _

It opens with a picture of all of them, taken by Todd when he stopped by to deliver some supplies, smiling in the couch by the fireplace, Quentin and Eliot side by side because Eliot had been showing him some pictures of his time in Tokyo, and Julia had been helping Teddy wrap his presents on the floor. 

Next, there’s the picture they took with the Christmas tree and all that followed on that day, growing increasingly silly, and Eliot can’t help chuckling at the antics he hadn’t noticed to be quite this… nice. 

The video goes on, pictures he hadn’t even noticed being taken– Julia and him bent over a recipes book, scowls on their faces while smoke floated behind; Quentin laughing, head thrown back, while Eliot pretended to be mortally wounded by Teddy’s cardboard sword; Julia and Quentin reading in silence; the night they spent building the gingerbread house; and even– 

Even a photo of Eliot and Quentin dancing in the kitchen, a rare moment where Quentin had been looking at Eliot rather than down and Eliot had been looking at him and, and.

And it’s terribly overwhelming.

Because Eliot  _ wants  _ this so fiercely, it’s almost cruel with his heart to have it dangled in his face like this, to see how easy it would be to fall in place with these people.

How content he looks in all the pictures.

There’s only a photo of Margo in his wallet but Eliot thinks he wouldn’t mind carrying half of these with him. Maybe become the kind of person who stops strangers to show pictures of his family.

_ Shit, he’s making a mistake, isn’t he? _

The bell rings shrilly when he pushes the door open and lets it slam closed, cutting off the disgruntled muttering at the man at the register.

Outside, the snow has piled up considerably, soaking up to his shoes, and Eliot spares it no matter than an annoyed glance before starting his car and pulling out of the gas station, driving away towards the same way he came, up the mountain and farther and farther from the airport.

Closer and closer to Pines Groves.

In his mind, he rehearses what he might say to Quentin, tries to make sense of his swirling thoughts, promising this hypothetical-Quentin on his head that the next he sees him _ , he’ll be braver. _

Except, the universe seems to have other ideas. As he makes his way back, impatiently pressing down on gas and squinting to see the buildings in the distance, his car starts to make a weird noise. The engine sputters and it slows down, rolling to a stop a few feet ahead, refusing to restart even as Eliot desperately turns and turns the key in the ignition.

“Shit,” he swears, letting his head drop against the wheel, and allows himself a minute to wallow before dialing up Margo.

With the snow thickening, reception is fuzzy and spotty, it takes him a few tries until Margo’s voice is coming out in bits and pieces,  _ “ –hear me? Eliot?” _

“Bambi?” He perks up, thanking whichever deity is up there finally giving him a  _ fucking  _ break, “my car broke down again–”

“Where are you?” She demands, sounding distant and faint over the wind, “I can’t– Eliot, where– you?”

“Just outside Pine Groves,” he glances around, searching for anything more specific, “I think- I can’t be too far, can you send a tow car?”

“Pine Groves?” Margo asks, thankfully picking up on the keyword there, “are you still– Pine– oves?”

The line goes down.

_ “Fuck,”  _ He murmurs, feelings his previous burst of courage wind down with the prospect of waiting indefinitely for either help or his car to miraculously start working again. 

Outside his window, the promised snowstorm rages on. 

*

Quentin has never been one for drinking, but after tucking Teddy in bed tonight and returning to a living room bare of any sign Eliot has even been there at all, he feels a strong need to go snooping around the cabinets for some sort of strong liquor.

Watching Teddy’s video that afternoon had left him wistful, dwelling into all the possibilities he had thought–  _ god,  _ he had honestly thought could come true. Last night he had been so ready to just tell Eliot everything, ask him to give them a chance– what proof does he want more than this week? They’ve been stuck with each other in a place with little to do and they  _ worked.  _

Or, well, at least that’s what Quentin had thought.

Maybe it’s stupid of him, but his heart still skips a beat when his phone starts ringing. “Hello?”

His own embarrassingly breathless voice is met with Fogg’s tense, unimpressed one. “Eliot’s car has broken down again,” Fogg says without preamble, “his friend Margo just called the shop–”

“What,” his mouth goes dry, worry rearing up in a crashing wave in his chest, “did she say where he was?”

“No, the reception was too bad, she couldn’t be sure.”

“Shit, alright, I’ll head down in the direction he went,” he hangs up without waiting for an answer, already picking his coat and looking for the car keys–

“Everything okay?” Julia’s leaning in the doorway to her bedroom, brows furrowed at his state, having clearly noticed his distress.

“Eliot’s car broke down,” he explains, halfway out the door, and makes a helpless gesture–  _ what else can he do? _

Faintly, he hears her calling a  _ be careful  _ to his back, but Quentin is too busy with thoughts of Eliot alone in the woods in this terrible weather, and sure, he has his car, but what if he decides to wander off? Eliot looks like a  _ wandering off  _ sort of person, too impatient to wait for help that for all he knows might not come, and  _ Jesus,  _ it’s cold outside.

He exhales shakily in relief once he spots Eliot’s car just beyond the bridge.

“Need a lift?” He asks cheekily, knocking on the window. Now that he knows Eliot is safe, it’s easier to slip into their early rhythm. “Come on, your friend called Fogg who called me.”

“Oh,” is all Eliot says, gathering his things to follow Quentin to his car, snow pooling on his hair, and Quentin can’t help being disappointed by the somewhat aloof treatment, “thanks.”

Quentin shrugs, “I think you need a new car,” he tries to joke, grimacing when it falls somewhat flat. The realization they’ll have to stay there until the storm lets up a little is just starting to dawn, and  _ shit,  _ Quentin is not prepared for this, okay, he didn’t plan this far, “sorry, it’s not safe to drive. Visibility, you know? So, uh, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

The awkwardness that settles should have been expected, perhaps even justified, considering the strangely stilted goodbye they shared that morning, but it still weighs on Quentin, presses on his shoulders and irks under his skin, sparking a restless energy that just can be diffused neither by drumming his fingers on the wheel nor fiddling with the static radio.

It compels him into speaking, “I just– I don’t understand why you left.”

Eliot clears his throat, glancing away, and Quentin notices how his hands had been closed into too-tight fists on his lap. “My editor needed me to come back, an emergency at the magazine.”

“Bullshit,” Quentin surprises even himself by his forceful reply, but Eliot’s constant lying is beginning to grate on him because  _ come on, does he really think Quentin’s that much of an idiot?  _ “Cut the crap, El. Something happened, something  _ has  _ to have happened, we were fine yesterday and then– you just left!”

Maybe it’s something in his voice, or maybe it’s tied in the same reason why Eliot’s car was facing North, but whatever for, Eliot still sighs, deflates, murmurs, “I was making it easier for you.”

“What? How could this–  _ easier for what?” _

“I heard you talking with Julia at the bonfire,” he says, sounding like every word is being gritted through his teeth, grinding down to dust before escaping, “about how we were better off as friends.”

The world stops.

A light begins to trickle in and Quentin breathes deeply. “Yes, I was telling Julia about  _ Alice,”  _ he pauses, adding, “who, for the record, I have no romantic feelings for.  _ At all.” _

If the world stopped spinning for Quentin, it seems to have crashed into a halt for Eliot, hurtling him into a stricken expression. “Oh. But I saw–” he trails off, looks at Quentin, baffled, “but she’s  _ perfect.” _

“Not for me,” Quentin counters easily. Then, because along with the light, hope had snuck in, he risks, “now, I couldn’t help noticing– your car is facing North, not South.”

Eliot doesn’t blush, but he huffs, bites his lips, “I might have been headed back to the cabin.”

_ Why  _ is ready to be asked, but Quentin thinks,  _ hopes,  _ he knows the answer already, and in this cramped car with Eliot glancing at him with something akin to  _ awe  _ in his eyes, it feels tangibly  _ possible.  _

“I got the email from Teddy,” Eliot continues, “with the photos? And I– these feelings, it’s not like I could deny, not when he captured them on camera.”

“He really did,” Quentin nods, thinking back at the ache that had opened in his chest like a festering wound while he watched himself falling further and further. And, well. He wasn’t the only one in those photos, was he? The way Eliot had been smiling at him that day in the kitchen, the warmth of his hand on Quentin’s back, the gentleness in the way they swayed to the music.

_ These feelings,  _ Eliot had just said.

“Eliot,” he says, turning to look at him, and his heart would be on his throat if it weren’t already on his sleeves, “you captured my interest from the moment you threatened me with Krav Maga.”

It’s scary, being so honest, and Eliot looks terrified when he speaks, “I’ve never felt like this before,” he admits, “and I don’t know what to do.”

“Me neither,” Quentin breathes, afraid any sudden movement might shatter this moment, dispel the illusion, “but it just, it feels  _ right,  _ and we can figure it out. Together.”

“Together,” Eliot echoes, the beginning of a genuine smile blooming on his face for the first time today, “I think I like the sound of that.”

Breathless, he dares, “so you’re in?”

“All the way,” Eliot agrees, and leans in–

Someone honks behind them.

They had been so close, barely an inch away, and Quentin has never wanted to throttle someone so much–

“Fuck it,” mumbles Eliot, tugging at his coat, drawing him closer, and then.

Then, they’re finally kissing.

And the snowstorm, and the cars, and missteps, and  _ the world,  _ they all fall away with the feeling of Eliot’s skin under his hand, the taste of his mouth on his tongue, the heart-stopping clarity that this is the start of something wonderful.

There is Quentin and there is Eliot and after everything, there’s a  _ us. _

_ * _

For the second time that year, Eliot finishes preparing the Risalamande, and watching Quentin talking with Teddy and Julia, he thinks of the first time he saw him, Krav Maga and all.

It was not love at first sight, but it was recognition–  _ koi no yokan.  _ Eliot met Quentin and falling in love was inevitable. 

Somewhere in this dish, there’s an almond and for the first time, Eliot isn’t scared. Or, rather, he’s terrified, but so is Quentin, sometimes, and being brave is easier when you’re not alone. 

“Eliot!” Teddy is waving a paper, grinning, “look, I made a new list for New Year!”

At his side, Quentin smiles indulgently. “I hear it’s going to be the best New Year around.”

“Well, then I suppose,” Eliot says, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

The table is set, life goes on, and happiness is no longer a four-letter word.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [building a (gingerbread) home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21633274) by [kazzashepard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazzashepard/pseuds/kazzashepard)




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